this is the knife
by coffee-not-decaf
Summary: In which Arthur has visions of the future that cause him more pain and heartache than strictly necessary.


The man on the pyre burned crimson against the pale blue sky and grey turrets of Camelot's castle as the overwhelming stench of smoke permeated the air.

Arthur swallowed hard and fought to keep his eyes open, head throbbing with something red and angry.

"Sorcerers," Uther muttered derisively from next to him. He hadn't batted an eye at the man's death – but then again, why would he? Magic was evil. Arthur knew that.

The pain in his mind screamed differently.

The man had been a country farmer only miles from Camelot's border. His birth had come along with the inherent ability to predict weather patterns and therefore, he always knew what to plant and when to garner the most product and money. He had let slip this particular talent after too many tankards to a leggy blonde woman at the tavern who let him look under her skirts. She had come to the king. Now the man died in agony.

Uther had never told Arthur any of that, only that the man was magical and evil and had to be put down.

Arthur had known the rest before the man had even met the woman in the tavern.

"If you'll excuse me, Father," Arthur said over the roar of the blood rushing in his head. "I'm feeling unwell. If I could go and visit Gaius…?"

Uther nodded curtly. Arthur ducked away, out of the balcony overlooking the courtyard and into the lighter and airier corridor. After stumbling slightly down a narrow staircase, Arthur couldn't keep himself upright any longer – he collapsed, heaving, on the ground, tear pinpricking the corners of his eyes.

Visions had been permeating Arthur's dreaming and waking moments for months now – always of people in the kingdom, people who he knew or would come across, in horrible situations, in terrible danger, and Arthur couldn't do anything to help.

It was _magic _after all, magic showed him these things, destroyed his mind and sanity. He couldn't save someone if magic willed him to do so.

(He had tried once, when he had awoken, shivering, gasping, and drenched in sweat after seeing his knight, Galahad, struck down by an outlaw's arrow, but on the next week's hunting expedition, he had been a second too late.)

Magic was evil but magic was everywhere in Arthur now, pounding and screaming and tearing him asunder, and God, he couldn't _breathe _the pain was so excruciating…

"Arthur?"

Arthur blinked at the sound of a soft, concerned voice, and he cleared his throat forcefully because no one could find the crown prince a sobbing mess on the floor. A blurry look upward saw his manservant, Merlin, eyes very wide and very blue, neckerchief askew as he knelt down to Arthur's level.

Arthur coughed loudly and sat up fully, despite the cracking in his spine. If anyone had to find him like this, it may as well be Merlin. At least he could command the boy not to speak of it to anyone.

Not that Merlin would listen, of course, but that was another problem entirely.

"I – I'm fine," Arthur managed to rasp, and he cleared his throat again to get rid of the sound permanently. Merlin's gaze turned fond and exasperated though still quite worried. Arthur had a constant concern of his manservant finding him having an – episode – in the middle of the night. Who knew what the result of that would be?"

"No, you're not," Merlin said firmly, and if Arthur had any energy, he would reprimand him for correcting the crown prince. Still, when Merlin gingerly took Arthur's shoulders and lifted him up off the ground, Arthur was oddly grateful. "I'm taking you to Gaius."

"I was headed there anyway," Arthur muttered tartly under his breath, which granted him a smile from Merlin, whose hands were still on Arthur, one on his shoulder blade and the other almost cupping his neck. Arthur's eyes flickered down at them and Merlin, noticing, jerked them back to his side.

"That's the Arthur I know and tolerate," he said in a cheeky, sing-song voice, and Arthur was torn between laughing, hitting Merlin across the back of his head, and letting the pain in his own overtake him once more.

* * *

"Are you sure you haven't been exposed to something – maybe on a quest, a hunting trip?"

"No, Gaius," Arthur refrained from sighing. "I haven't done anything out of the ordinary."

Gaius's look was severe, and Arthur felt like a petulant five year-old – which was usually how Gaius made him feel, if he was honest. He had that way about him. The physician gave a loud 'tut' before puttering back behind one of his many desks, the one opposite where Merlin viewed the two of them with a curious face.

Arthur might've told Gaius what was going on, the man had been a sorcerer in his younger days, if Uther was to be believed, and would never simply condemn Arthur to death – but if he was completely honest with himself, he was afraid. Afraid that saying it out loud would make it real.

Arthur still held onto a fervent hope that it wasn't.

A moment later, Gaius reappeared at his side with a vial filled with a disgusting-looking brown and frothy liquid. Arthur gazed at it distastefully before taking it from Gaius's outstretched hand.

"You should drink that just after you wake up and just before you go to sleep," Gaius told him, no-nonsense. "It should help with any lingering headaches."

"Thank you," Arthur said, rising to his feet. He was feeling better already, now that his surroundings didn't smell of smoke and flame. "That will be all, Gaius."

He swept from the room with all the dignity he could muster, which was hard, with Merlin's pitying gaze, like Arthur was porcelain and breakable.

* * *

_Ebony hair spinning and swirling in the dusty streets, golden in the setting sun, the long periwinkle dress of a maid, petite and hunched over, frightened and alone, carrying a basket of bread for her father, ill beyond reproach, not even the king's own physician could do a thing to help him, but she could, she could ease his pain, ease his passing –_

_But there were still three more streets to go before she reached the tiny, one-room home that they shared, just before the end of Camelot's walls; she bundled her thin and ragged shawl more firmly around herself as she picked up speed, because someone was watching her –_

_A man at her back, strong and confining, couldn't move her arms, legs, couldn't scream for help, for his glove was under her tongue, the bread fell from his grip with all the thoughts of her father –_

_His mouth stinking of alcohol, muttering about the wrongs she had done him, how he would get his revenge and the cool blade of the knife on her throat –_

Noise woke up Arthur up with a gasping start, and it was then that he realized it was his own muffled scream. Panting into his sweat-soaked pillow, hardly conscious of his actions, he reached upward to grasp at his own throat, blood should be pouring, flowing, from those veins right now, but it wasn't, how wasn't it, it should be, he was dead, he had felt the man in the alley kill him –

That wasn't him.

It was the moment that he became aware enough to realize this that he also realized he was not alone.

"Shhh, it's okay, Arthur, it's okay," a familiar, comforting voice whispered and there was an almost hesitant weight against the bed. Arthur knew it was Merlin without opening his eyes, because who else would be in his room in the middle of the night? Who else would be ignorant enough not to know that Arthur wanted to be left alone?

Who else would make sure Arthur was safe when all the signs pointed to the contrary?

A hand touched the back of Arthur's neck, just the fingertips, soft enough to be a shadow.

Silence reigned, only broken by Arthur's muffled sobs as his thoughts threatened to spill over out of his head, splitting his skull in two.

"Arthur…" Merlin could never stay quiet long, and Arthur knew exactly what he was about to ask.

He should have waited, shouldn't have answered, should have brushed it off as nightmares inspired from his throbbing head – should have said anything but the truth. Merlin was a servant, a country boy, would never be worthy of anything in the same way Arthur was…

But he was a friend. Arthur never made friends, but he knew that if he were to call Merlin anything, that would be the word for it. They'd only known each other for a little past a year, but Arthur knew it was true, just like he knew Merlin wouldn't fear him or hate him because his head held the future.

"Tomorrow night," He began shakily, eyes still screwed shut. Merlin's hand cupped Arthur's head more firmly now, and Arthur relaxed into the touch for a fraction of a second before continuing. "A serving girl in a pink dress will be walking home from the castle, to home and her sick father, and in the street just before the apothecary, a man will jump out the shadows and slit her throat."

Merlin was silent for a heartbeat.

"How do you know that?" His voice wasn't confrontational or apprehensive, only soft and careful.

Arthur sighed into the bedding and willed himself to open his eyes. Merlin's silhouette in the half-darkness reflected by the embers of the fire looked down at him with nothing more than concern in his eyes.

"I dreamt it," Arthur confessed.

Merlin's opposite hand reached across his body to touch Arthur's forehead and Arthur resisted the urge to shudder. "Do you…dream about these things a lot?"

Arthur didn't answer, and Merlin shifted further into the bed, sitting fully, leg next to Arthur's head, and there was a tentative nature to his touch now that hadn't been there before. It disappeared when a fresh wave of pain choked Arthur and all he could think of was safety and warmth – his head ended up in Merlin's lap, tears threatening to spill over one more.

Arthur could feel Merlin's fingers, lightly carding through his hair in such a quiet way that Arthur could hardly associate it with his day-to-day personality. A voice just as hushed asked seconds, minutes, possibly days later, "Is that what causes the headaches? Dreams?"

Arthur lifted his head up against the comforting heat of Merlin's body to meet Merlin's gaze. He nodded.

Merlin's face broke.

In an instant, his features transformed from guarded and worried to something more – something else – something Arthur couldn't identify. But it was warm and beautiful, and he found himself engulfed in a bone-crushing hug, sucking the air out of him so completely, but for the first time in weeks, Arthur could breathe again.

"You're okay," Merlin whispered into Arthur's ear, rocking back slowly as Arthur buried his head in the crook of Merlin's neck. It wasn't proper, hugging his servant like this, just like it hadn't been proper to put his head in his lap, because that was admitting Arthur needed touch, needed comfort, was _vulnerable, _and a prince could never be vulnerable, but beneath the part of him that told him that stone-cold logic was a large, influential part that said it didn't matter.

"It's magic, though," Arthur whispered to the blue of Merlin's neckerchief, scratching against his chin. "It's… wrong."

"No, it's not, I promise, it's not," Merlin's breath was heavy in Arthur's ear and his arms reached upward, pulling away from Arthur's waist. Arthur would have protested, but they immediately reached upward to card through Arthur's hair once more, tentative and soothing. "It's the furthest thing from."

"How would you know?" Arthur muffled a sob in Merlin's shirt and Merlin broke their contact just enough so that he could lift Arthur's head to press their foreheads together. His eyes were brighter than Merlin had ever seen them –

And then they flashed golden.

"I know."

Arthur fell asleep with dried tears on his face and his head on Merlin's shoulder, light kisses being pressed onto his aching head.

It may have been Arthur's imagination, but they it seemed like they dulled the pain.


End file.
